bjarvis: (Default)
I rarely remember dreams very long, but I had a very pleasant one last night.

I dreamt I was visiting my old elementary school in Charlton, ON. More precisely, the old building where I attended classes rather than the new & modern building which has been in operation for the past 12-15 years or so.

While in the room which was my grade 3-4 class, I was talking to the current day teachers, reminescing about my days there in the 1970s. That's the room where Mrs Lafferty taught me grade 1-2, this is the room with Mrs Milton for grades 3-4, upstairs for grade 5 with Mrs Mitchell, the senior room for grades 7-8 with Mrs Brownlee & Mr Bott. (I went to a different school for grade 6 to attend a french immersion program.)

In my dream, as in real life, all of my elementary level teachers have since retired. For all I know, several of them have passed away. I chatted with in-dream teachers for a while about their predecessors, then about their current roles in the school.

I can't say that my elementary school years were happy times. They were at best a mix: some carefree days as a child blissfully unaware of most worries of the world, some days not so much because of the utter lack of control over one's own body, life, health or fate, at the mercy of practically everyone else's whim or mood. But I was a good student and found the intellectual support I needed to prepare for the rest of my academic life.

That old building was sold in the early 1990s to become a furniture factory; the operations of the Charlton school and the Savard Township school were merged into a single entity on the other side of town prior. I don't know if the old building is still there, or what modifications were made to the interior: I would like to visit it if possible the next time I'm in the area.
bjarvis: (Default)
I had an unusual dream last night.

Typically, if I remember a dream, it's because it was scary or exceedingly whimsical. This dream was more, well, relaxing & soothing. I'm not used to that.

Last December, I lost my tablet somewhere in the mean streets of Manhattan. I was on my way to catch the bus back to DC and I discovered my backpack was open slightly and my tablet was missing, presumably lost in a gutter somewhere. The contents were encrypted and I activated the remote wipe so outside of the inconvenience of replacing it, there's no harm done but the cost of replacement.

My dream: Someone found a tablet in the street, reset it to factory settings and is now happily making use of it. Somehow, I was able to send a voice message via the tablet to its new owner.

My message was simple: I have a new tablet and while the old one was very nice, I've come to terms with its loss. I don't want or need it back. I hope it is as useful to them as it was to me, and that they enjoy it in good health for as long as they need.

That's when I woke up, feeling more peaceful than I have in a while. And I do hope my old tablet is being useful to someone right now.
bjarvis: (Default)
I had a delightful dream last night.

I was hired to be the chief technical officer for a firm in some major city. Which city? I can't say, but from the reception office on the 20th floor of our office tower, I could see a bridge crossing a canal running parallel to our street. We occupied some twenty stories of a all office tower amongst several other towers in the downtown core.

My office was a huge sprawling control room which would make any mad scientist green with envy. Individual workstations had small monitors but the three story atrium-like space was dominated by a series of holographic projected displays showing the status of our in-house computer systems and networks. There was a smaller circle of workstation to the left for the office's environmental & power systems (the building had its own fusion reactor in the basement). I didn't monitor those activities directly but the team's manager reported to me by default as no other corporate officer wanted the job.

My personal office was to the right of the main control room, with separate doors to the control center and to my residential suite. My personal space had even more living space than my current house although I was still fretting about how to rearrange the space to make room for [profile] kent4str and [profile] cuyahogarvr.

I don't recall any mention of salary or bennies, but I'd be willing to take a severe pay cut just to have a mad scientist style control room like that. *drool*
bjarvis: (sleeping)
I didn't get to bed until 4am last night, mostly owing to some night shift work at the data center.

Nearly as soon as I drifted to sleep, I had a strange dream which woke me up again almost immediately.

I was somehow back in northern Ontario, visiting my old elementary school. Charlton Public School had barely 70 students when I graduated from grade 8; some 15 years ago, the building itself was sold and remade into a furniture factory. Still, in my dream, the building appeared as it was back in my day.

Everyone I ever knew at that school have long since retired and/or passed away so not unexpectedly all of the teachers were new to me.

Because it was raining the day of my visit, the kids couldn't go outside for recess at lunchtime. Instead, all of them were in the basement gym square dancing, and the principal was the square dance caller. That was kinda neat --there was no school-centered square dancing when I attended years ago-- but then I noticed: all of these 7 & 8 year old kids were dancing C3B while I can barely dance C2!

To say that I suddenly felt like a complete failure was an understatement.

When I commented to the principal/caller that I thought his dance program was really cool and that I call & dance in the greater DC area, he handed me the microphone and asked me to call a tip. I called my hardest C1, my normally highest calling level, judiciously throwing in a handful of C2 calls where possible. I called stuff which would normally guarantee crashing a floor at home but these kids handled it with ease.

When the tip was done, the kids were appropriately polite but I could see the look in their eyes: That's the best you can do? C'mon, give us something at least a little difficult, loser!

That's when I woke up.

At the best of times, I'm acutely aware of my own shortcomings and failures but having my subconscious launch a full frontal attack like this was more than a bit disturbing.


Go ahead... ask me anything!
bjarvis: (sleeping)
I didn't get to bed until 4am last night, mostly owing to some night shift work at the data center.

Nearly as soon as I drifted to sleep, I had a strange dream which woke me up again almost immediately.

I was somehow back in northern Ontario, visiting my old elementary school. Charlton Public School had barely 70 students when I graduated from grade 8; some 15 years ago, the building itself was sold and remade into a furniture factory. Still, in my dream, the building appeared as it was back in my day.

Everyone I ever knew at that school have long since retired and/or passed away so not unexpectedly all of the teachers were new to me.

Because it was raining the day of my visit, the kids couldn't go outside for recess at lunchtime. Instead, all of them were in the basement gym square dancing, and the principal was the square dance caller. That was kinda neat --there was no school-centered square dancing when I attended years ago-- but then I noticed: all of these 7 & 8 year old kids were dancing C3B while I can barely dance C2!

To say that I suddenly felt like a complete failure was an understatement.

When I commented to the principal/caller that I thought his dance program was really cool and that I call & dance in the greater DC area, he handed me the microphone and asked me to call a tip. I called my hardest C1, my normally highest calling level, judiciously throwing in a handful of C2 calls where possible. I called stuff which would normally guarantee crashing a floor at home but these kids handled it with ease.

When the tip was done, the kids were appropriately polite but I could see the look in their eyes: That's the best you can do? C'mon, give us something at least a little difficult, loser!

That's when I woke up.

At the best of times, I'm acutely aware of my own shortcomings and failures but having my subconscious launch a full frontal attack like this was more than a bit disturbing.


Go ahead... ask me anything!
bjarvis: (avatar)
I just had the most vivid dream. I need to write this down to clear my head so I can go back to sleep but I also fear I'll utterly forget it if I do sleep.

This might make an interesting two person, one act play. It seems so obvious and complete however that I can only assume I've read this somewhere before and it's been lurking around in my subconscious.
---
Setting: A simple, primitive peasant one-room farmhouse. No plumbing, no electricity, few possessions, sparse furnishings.

The son been away for most of the day, whether in town for supplies or working in the fields doesn't matter. He's in his thirties, a big, strapping man but simple-minded, slightly retarded. He is a good and honest person but limited vocabulary, slow to speak, easily excited, ruled by spontaneous emotions, childlike.

And he's discovered his mother in bed, dead, having passed away quietly in her sleep.

She's only in her 50s but even laying there she appears easily to be 90: her body is worn completely from the hardship of her widowed peasant life, aged and withered far beyond her years.

The scene opens with the son returning home. He brings in firewood, fetches water, washes his hands and face, talking to his mother in a stilted, stuttering way, describing the highlights of his day. After a few minutes, he realizes something is wrong and looks to his mother. She is silent, her hands are cold and stiff. He howls in shock and profound pain as he realizes the truth.

But is she really dead?

Mother moans and rouses. She tells him to stop making such noise. He is ecstatic with joy that he was wrong. Mother is alive!

She is briefly confused. As she collects herself, they talk. He attempts to describe his horror and pain about thinking she had died while he was out, and his tremendous relief that he was mistaken. He could not bear to live without his dear mother. She reassures him that she will be with him all of her life and that her love for him will go on when her body cannot. They recollect her late husband/his father, their grief for his loss after all these years, their ties as a family and thoughts of a better future.

Reassured, mother and son go through the usual routines of their evening. He does chores on scene or just off-scene while she slices vegetables and prepares their evening meal. They never stop talking. They have had a long life together, her trying to teach her slow son the most vital life lessons so he will be ready for the world.

The son steps outside to chop firewood. After some time, Mother realizes something odd: she's standing straighter than she has in years and no longer needs her walking stick. Her hands are no longer wracked with arthritic pain. The cold no longer bothers her. She feels more energetic. At a random glance in a mirror, she sees her face isn't as wrinkled or worn as it once was. Her limp has gone. On a whim, she changes into her best dress --still a simple, modest affair but clean and unpatched. Her unusual vigor jogs her memory of her late husband when they were so in love decades ago, dancing together. She remembers him so vividly he almost materializes before her eyes but the image fades suddenly when she remembers too that he has been dead for several years. How can any of this be?

She realizes in a flash the truth of the situation: she is indeed dead. She feels more alive than she has in decades; she feels warm, she checks her pulse by touching her neck. But how can she possibly be youthful and healthy again?

She hears her son calling from outside/off-stage, and almost as quickly, her thoughts are turned not to her situation but that of her devoted son. Is she a ghost? A character in his dreams? A self-aware hallucination of his grief-stricken mind? It does not matter: she knows intuitively her time is very limited yet she must teach him one last vital life lesson while she still can.

When he returns with firewood, she serves him dinner and tries to appear unfazed by her discovery. She guides him back to his father's death, the things they did together to prepare his body, the ceremonies of the burial, the process of the funeral. He talks slowly, trying to verbalize the emptiness he felt when his father died and how he couldn't face the pain of losing her too but she reminds him gently that no on is immortal: she too will eventually pass away and so will he in his turn.

They eat together a simple meal, then clear away the dishes. By candlelight, they go through their usual evening ritual, lessons in reading and religion; she has been making him practice reading by having him read chapters from their ancient family Bible for most of his life. This time, however, she carefully selects passages relating to the nature of life & death and the process of grieving.

Gradually, mother is fading. Her shuffling limp has returned. She wraps her shawl tighter to fend off the cooling night air. She moves more sluggishly than she did only minutes ago.

She stops his reading and asks him about his plans for the future. After all these years of patient, back-breaking struggle on the farm, he has never seen much more than the few miles around their house. She reminds him of the bigger world beyond, both good and bad, that she remembers from her childhood and that they have experienced by their reading lessons together. He openly ponders the two of them going out into the world. She insinuates that he must think to his own adventures without her; he doesn't quite grasp her meaning so she becomes more direct: she's not going to be with him for such an adventure and he will very soon be alone.

He resists the notion but mother is adamant: staring at her newly-again gnarled hands, she tells him about the loss of her own parents when he was just a baby. All who are born must eventually die. Even mothers. Even when a son is left behind in a lonely peasant farm house.

The lesson penetrates. He is slow but not stupid. And he understands why she is giving this lesson now.

He asks how he can possibly continue without her. She reminds him of their lifetime of lessons together, all they've done. They have survived biting winters, brutally hot summers, illness and loss. He knows everything he needs to, he just needs to have faith that he can cope.

She is once again as old and withered as when we met her. Her walking stick is across the room so she asks his help to make her way back to her bed. He makes her comfortable. She reminds him to be kind, gentle and honest and to practice reading every day. He promises to do so.

And they say good-bye.
bjarvis: (avatar)
I just had the most vivid dream. I need to write this down to clear my head so I can go back to sleep but I also fear I'll utterly forget it if I do sleep.

This might make an interesting two person, one act play. It seems so obvious and complete however that I can only assume I've read this somewhere before and it's been lurking around in my subconscious.
---
Setting: A simple, primitive peasant one-room farmhouse. No plumbing, no electricity, few possessions, sparse furnishings.

The son been away for most of the day, whether in town for supplies or working in the fields doesn't matter. He's in his thirties, a big, strapping man but simple-minded, slightly retarded. He is a good and honest person but limited vocabulary, slow to speak, easily excited, ruled by spontaneous emotions, childlike.

And he's discovered his mother in bed, dead, having passed away quietly in her sleep.

She's only in her 50s but even laying there she appears easily to be 90: her body is worn completely from the hardship of her widowed peasant life, aged and withered far beyond her years.

The scene opens with the son returning home. He brings in firewood, fetches water, washes his hands and face, talking to his mother in a stilted, stuttering way, describing the highlights of his day. After a few minutes, he realizes something is wrong and looks to his mother. She is silent, her hands are cold and stiff. He howls in shock and profound pain as he realizes the truth.

But is she really dead?

Mother moans and rouses. She tells him to stop making such noise. He is ecstatic with joy that he was wrong. Mother is alive!

She is briefly confused. As she collects herself, they talk. He attempts to describe his horror and pain about thinking she had died while he was out, and his tremendous relief that he was mistaken. He could not bear to live without his dear mother. She reassures him that she will be with him all of her life and that her love for him will go on when her body cannot. They recollect her late husband/his father, their grief for his loss after all these years, their ties as a family and thoughts of a better future.

Reassured, mother and son go through the usual routines of their evening. He does chores on scene or just off-scene while she slices vegetables and prepares their evening meal. They never stop talking. They have had a long life together, her trying to teach her slow son the most vital life lessons so he will be ready for the world.

The son steps outside to chop firewood. After some time, Mother realizes something odd: she's standing straighter than she has in years and no longer needs her walking stick. Her hands are no longer wracked with arthritic pain. The cold no longer bothers her. She feels more energetic. At a random glance in a mirror, she sees her face isn't as wrinkled or worn as it once was. Her limp has gone. On a whim, she changes into her best dress --still a simple, modest affair but clean and unpatched. Her unusual vigor jogs her memory of her late husband when they were so in love decades ago, dancing together. She remembers him so vividly he almost materializes before her eyes but the image fades suddenly when she remembers too that he has been dead for several years. How can any of this be?

She realizes in a flash the truth of the situation: she is indeed dead. She feels more alive than she has in decades; she feels warm, she checks her pulse by touching her neck. But how can she possibly be youthful and healthy again?

She hears her son calling from outside/off-stage, and almost as quickly, her thoughts are turned not to her situation but that of her devoted son. Is she a ghost? A character in his dreams? A self-aware hallucination of his grief-stricken mind? It does not matter: she knows intuitively her time is very limited yet she must teach him one last vital life lesson while she still can.

When he returns with firewood, she serves him dinner and tries to appear unfazed by her discovery. She guides him back to his father's death, the things they did together to prepare his body, the ceremonies of the burial, the process of the funeral. He talks slowly, trying to verbalize the emptiness he felt when his father died and how he couldn't face the pain of losing her too but she reminds him gently that no on is immortal: she too will eventually pass away and so will he in his turn.

They eat together a simple meal, then clear away the dishes. By candlelight, they go through their usual evening ritual, lessons in reading and religion; she has been making him practice reading by having him read chapters from their ancient family Bible for most of his life. This time, however, she carefully selects passages relating to the nature of life & death and the process of grieving.

Gradually, mother is fading. Her shuffling limp has returned. She wraps her shawl tighter to fend off the cooling night air. She moves more sluggishly than she did only minutes ago.

She stops his reading and asks him about his plans for the future. After all these years of patient, back-breaking struggle on the farm, he has never seen much more than the few miles around their house. She reminds him of the bigger world beyond, both good and bad, that she remembers from her childhood and that they have experienced by their reading lessons together. He openly ponders the two of them going out into the world. She insinuates that he must think to his own adventures without her; he doesn't quite grasp her meaning so she becomes more direct: she's not going to be with him for such an adventure and he will very soon be alone.

He resists the notion but mother is adamant: staring at her newly-again gnarled hands, she tells him about the loss of her own parents when he was just a baby. All who are born must eventually die. Even mothers. Even when a son is left behind in a lonely peasant farm house.

The lesson penetrates. He is slow but not stupid. And he understands why she is giving this lesson now.

He asks how he can possibly continue without her. She reminds him of their lifetime of lessons together, all they've done. They have survived biting winters, brutally hot summers, illness and loss. He knows everything he needs to, he just needs to have faith that he can cope.

She is once again as old and withered as when we met her. Her walking stick is across the room so she asks his help to make her way back to her bed. He makes her comfortable. She reminds him to be kind, gentle and honest and to practice reading every day. He promises to do so.

And they say good-bye.
bjarvis: (sleeping)
This will probably bore the hell out of you but I wanted to write it down because it was so unusual for me...

Here it is... )

Sadly, this is where I woke up. I wish I could remember more details about what I was able to read in the book or think of what I might have done with it.
bjarvis: (sleeping)
This will probably bore the hell out of you but I wanted to write it down because it was so unusual for me...

Here it is... )

Sadly, this is where I woke up. I wish I could remember more details about what I was able to read in the book or think of what I might have done with it.
bjarvis: (sleeping)
I don't dream very often, at least not that I remember. This morning, I had two distinct dreams, both related to jobs.

Dream contents under the click, if you care. )
bjarvis: (sleeping)
I don't dream very often, at least not that I remember. This morning, I had two distinct dreams, both related to jobs.

Dream contents under the click, if you care. )
bjarvis: (urbana)
I really don't want to be at the office today.

Whine, whine, whine... )

Last night, I dreamt I was assigned to the senior engineer overseeing the early construction phases of two aircraft carriers being assembled side-by-side in dockyards not too far from DC. I followed him everywhere, ensuring his instructions were followed, recording & implementing any changes required and generally keeping the project going. We had a steady calendar rotation, working from offices near Dulles Airport one day per week, three on site and the fifth flexible to meet demands. I think I was enjoying the work. At the very least, I was conscious that I was both busy and productive. That's probably what I miss most in my current job.
bjarvis: (urbana)
I really don't want to be at the office today.

Whine, whine, whine... )

Last night, I dreamt I was assigned to the senior engineer overseeing the early construction phases of two aircraft carriers being assembled side-by-side in dockyards not too far from DC. I followed him everywhere, ensuring his instructions were followed, recording & implementing any changes required and generally keeping the project going. We had a steady calendar rotation, working from offices near Dulles Airport one day per week, three on site and the fifth flexible to meet demands. I think I was enjoying the work. At the very least, I was conscious that I was both busy and productive. That's probably what I miss most in my current job.
bjarvis: (sleeping)
Last night, I dreamed I was the responsible adult (chief technology officer, technology manager, whatever) for a small company. We had just finished building out a new computer room in one area of the building and it looked good: raised floor, nice neat racks, carefully bundled & colour-coded network cables, etc.. Everything was shiny.

Towards the middle of the afternoon, it began raining and we discovered that our fabulous new computing wing had a leaky roof. Very leaky. The cooling fans were keeping water from dripping inside the cabinets but rain was still trickling down the side of the cabinets and into the sub-flooring.

I was simultaneously trying to coordinate a controlled shutdown of everything in the computer room, updating the users as to the unavailability of their applications, contacting the facilities managers to see what's going on with the roof and fending off angry telephone calls from just about everyone demanding explanations of why I hadn't personally inspected the roof myself and why I had allowed God to initiate precipitation of any kind.

Oddly enough, I woke up without being particularly stressed or concerned: it's not so different from my normal work life so it would take more than that disaster to get me upset. (Indeed, just now, I realized that the night shift did only 10% of a major work ticket I wrote 'cause he didn't read past the summary line. *sigh*)
bjarvis: (sleeping)
Last night, I dreamed I was the responsible adult (chief technology officer, technology manager, whatever) for a small company. We had just finished building out a new computer room in one area of the building and it looked good: raised floor, nice neat racks, carefully bundled & colour-coded network cables, etc.. Everything was shiny.

Towards the middle of the afternoon, it began raining and we discovered that our fabulous new computing wing had a leaky roof. Very leaky. The cooling fans were keeping water from dripping inside the cabinets but rain was still trickling down the side of the cabinets and into the sub-flooring.

I was simultaneously trying to coordinate a controlled shutdown of everything in the computer room, updating the users as to the unavailability of their applications, contacting the facilities managers to see what's going on with the roof and fending off angry telephone calls from just about everyone demanding explanations of why I hadn't personally inspected the roof myself and why I had allowed God to initiate precipitation of any kind.

Oddly enough, I woke up without being particularly stressed or concerned: it's not so different from my normal work life so it would take more than that disaster to get me upset. (Indeed, just now, I realized that the night shift did only 10% of a major work ticket I wrote 'cause he didn't read past the summary line. *sigh*)
bjarvis: (sleeping)
Last night's weird dream, cut to make it easier for you to ignore. )

Why is this dream exceptional enough that I remember it? Only minor drama and had a happy ending. Wanna take a guess how rare that is in my dream world?
bjarvis: (sleeping)
Last night's weird dream, cut to make it easier for you to ignore. )

Why is this dream exceptional enough that I remember it? Only minor drama and had a happy ending. Wanna take a guess how rare that is in my dream world?
bjarvis: (sleeping)
Last night, I had a dream that I was working on a graduate degree (again) of some flavor.

For one of the routine weekly lab reports, I had to obtain and detonate 12-15 five megaton nuclear warheads approximately 5 km below the surface of the earth, then use purchased time on a world-wide siesmic network to obtain the echo data with which I was to create a suitable mathematical model to map the interior of the planet.

My report --handed in ahead of schedule, naturally-- showed a solid metal core at the center and mapped a number of interesting large magma flows and eddies, all nicely demonstrated via a 3D holographic representation.

Alas, I woke up before my report was graded.

This probably speaks volumes about my fear of project scope creep.
bjarvis: (sleeping)
Last night, I had a dream that I was working on a graduate degree (again) of some flavor.

For one of the routine weekly lab reports, I had to obtain and detonate 12-15 five megaton nuclear warheads approximately 5 km below the surface of the earth, then use purchased time on a world-wide siesmic network to obtain the echo data with which I was to create a suitable mathematical model to map the interior of the planet.

My report --handed in ahead of schedule, naturally-- showed a solid metal core at the center and mapped a number of interesting large magma flows and eddies, all nicely demonstrated via a 3D holographic representation.

Alas, I woke up before my report was graded.

This probably speaks volumes about my fear of project scope creep.
bjarvis: (sleeping)
Last night shortly after I shuffled to the guestroom, I had a rather odd and possibly prophetic dream...

I envisioned I had taken a new job and was just introduced to my new office, a space in utter shambles. Most the dream was taken up in clearing away garbage left by the prior occupant, getting the workstation functional and making the appropriate updates (changing the name on the door, updating the voice mail message, checking my network logins, and such). Once I was more or less settled, I started working on a list of items I would need: a dry erase board, replacement chairs, a hands-free wireless headset for the telephone, a better monitor, replacement window blinds, etc..

Alas, I woke up before my dream could fill in certain desirable blanks, such as what precisely my role was or where I was working.

September 2017

S M T W T F S
     12
3 45678 9
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 26th, 2017 01:47 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios